


Game On

by thatceliachick



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: F/M, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-17 23:26:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2327018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatceliachick/pseuds/thatceliachick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hotch hates it when she's late. Kind of a twist on the usual kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Game On

Prentiss is late. She can feel his anger as she enters the cheap hotel room and slips her coat off. He snatches it from her and tosses it on the bed and she knows she’ll pay for making him wait.

She freezes for a second, unsure of what he wants, until Hotch gives her The Look. Flushing, she quickly pulls her blouse off, then her bra, throwing them onto the rickety bed along with her coat. Before she can step out of her skirt, he snags her wrist and forces her down, bending her over the cheap desk until her forehead is pressed against the sticky fake wood grain. She bites back a groan as her skirt is tugged off, her panties ripped away and discarded.

She shudders as he pulls his belt free from the waistband of his trousers; the sound of the leather sliding through fine wool sends a jolt through her that she can’t describe.

“Who owns you?” Hotchner demands, his voice rough with anger and something else, something dark and wild, as his hand slides under her abdomen, forcing her hips up.

She doesn’t answer for a second, afraid to let him hear the tremor of arousal in her voice, and the hesitation costs her, one, two, three sharp strokes of the belt across her bare ass.

Again. “Who owns you?” And his knee forces its way between her thighs, spreading her open.

“You do,” Prentiss answers. She can barely speak as his hand slides from her stomach up to her breast. He pinches one firm nipple roughly and her moan turns to a whimper when she hears the rustle of fabric as he unfastens his trousers.

He releases her wrists, but she doesn’t move as he strikes her upturned ass half a dozen more times with the belt. “Who owns you?” he asks again, pinching her again with each stroke of the belt until she’s half-chanting, half-sobbing, “You own me. You own me.”

He forces her hips up higher and she shudders when the head of his cock nudges her labia, but she knows this game, knew the rules when she left the house too late, when she circled the block twice before entering the hotel. Hotch holds still, knowing the rules as well, knowing to wait, poised just at the entrance to the wet heat of her body until she welcomes him in, rubs her ass invitingly against his hips, lifts herself higher and wider for him until he thrusts into her, and then they’re both groaning, too excited to speak as their bodies join.

One hand slides between her legs, fingers landing at exactly the right spot, rubbing in a quick, light circle as the other keeps teasing her nipple, and she’s gasping his name, hips sliding up and back against his hard length as he fills her perfectly.

She peaks first, her body clenching around him, and he shudders and thrusts hard, his voice shaking with release as he swears he belongs to her, always to her, always, and only to her.

An hour later, she’s perched on the edge of the desk as he kneels between her legs. When she gives the word, he’ll use his mouth and tongue on her, but he waits patiently for her orders. She studies him fondly, admiring his wiry build. “Next time, use the handcuffs,” she says. “And pinch a little harder.”

“As you wish, Madame,” he answers, and she’s pleased beyond words at his perfect obedience.

Prentiss rewards him by opening her thighs a little wider. “Now, pet,” she orders, and sighs as he leans in to begin pleasuring her.


End file.
